Page 87 of Over the Edge

Flynn was a man possessed, tearing down the steps with single-minded fury. I’d seen him angry before, seen him in combat, but this was different. This was raw, primal rage—the kind that burns rational thought to ash.

Moreau had reached the dock, his security detail forming a protective ring around him. The yacht’s engines were already running, the low rumble echoing up the canyon walls.

Oh, no.

Flynn was going to get himself killed.

I pushed harder to catch up to him, my legs burning, my body screaming in protest—cuts, bruises, and the lingering effects of the neural disruptor making every step agony. But I kept moving. Flynn wasn’t going in there alone.

“Mav,” I gasped into my comm. “Target the yacht!”

“No can do, Siren,” came the immediate reply. “Too close to your position. Risk of collateral is too high.” Nolan’s voice was tense, all playfulness gone. “I can’t make that shot without taking you both out.”

I swore and kept running. Flynn had reached the bottom of the canyon now, a hundred yards from where Moreau’s men were loading equipment onto the boat. One of the guards spotted him and raised his weapon.

“Contact!” I shouted, but Flynn was already diving behind a stack of supply crates as bullets splintered the wood around him.

I slid into cover beside him seconds later, breathing hard. “What’s the plan?”

“Kill Moreau,” Flynn replied, his voice unnervingly flat. His eyes were cold, focused, pupils blown wide with adrenaline.

“Flynn, we need to think this through. There are six of them, heavily armed, and we’ve got?—”

“I don’t care.” He checked the rifle he’d picked up from one of Moreau’s fallen guards. “He doesn’t leave this island.”

The yacht’s engines roared louder. We were running out of time.

“Cover me,” Flynn said, and before I could stop him, he was moving.

What he did next was nothing short of spectacular. He tore through those guards like they were paper dolls with toy guns. I barely needed to provide cover fire.

Then, with a yell that was all rage, he plowed into Moreau.

The collision sent them both crashing against the yacht’s railing. I scrambled down to the dock, my heart in my throat as Flynn’s fists connected with Moreau’s face—once, twice, three times in rapid succession. Blood sprayed across the polished deck.

“Flynn!” I called, but he couldn’t hear me. Or wouldn’t.

Moreau wasn’t going down easily. Despite his refined appearance, the man clearly knew how to fight. He twisted away from Flynn’s next blow, producing a blade from somewhere that glinted in the moonlight. Before I could shout a warning, he buried it in Flynn’s side.

“No!”

Flynn barely flinched. He grabbed Moreau’s wrist, twisted until something snapped, and headbutted him with enough force that I heard the crunch of cartilage from where I stood.

I vaulted onto the yacht, weapon ready, scanning for any remaining guards. The deck was clear, but that didn’t mean we were alone. I moved toward Flynn, who had Moreau pinned against the railing now, one hand around his throat.

“You’re dead,” Flynn growled, pressing the muzzle of his gun under Moreau’s chin. His finger tightened on the trigger.

But he didn’t fire.

Moreau smiled through the blood dripping down his face from his broken nose. “Do it,” he wheezed. “Show your lady what kind of animal you are.”

Flynn’s hand trembled. The rage in his eyes was primal, unfiltered—a darkness I’d glimpsed before but never seen unleashed.

“Flynn,” I murmured, approaching them slowly.

He didn’t look at me, but I knew he heard me. His breathing had gone ragged, uneven.

Moreau’s eyes flicked to me, then back to Flynn. Despite the blood and the gun at his head, he still managed to look smug, almost amused. “Your woman was so compliant when paralyzed. So helpless while I explored what was mine.”

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